After the Dawn
by blueemissary
Summary: A follow up to the ending of season five from Percival and Gwen's PoV - CH1 - "This is the last confirmation he needs. There is no way to deny it now. The king is dead" - CH2 - "Merlin takes several strides into the chamber before it seems his legs give out and he falls to his knees before her, head bowed."
1. Percival

The longer Percival follows the tracks, the more familiar his surroundings become. There comes a point when the trail goes cold but he keeps on going, trusting his instincts to guide him to the lake that Gwaine had told him of. The lake of Avalon.  
When he crests the final hill, he's rewarded with clear view of the lake and of the island at its centre. From this far away he can't tell if the dark specks on it are people or part of the brush. For all he knows Merlin and Arthur aren't even there yet, as close as it is to the deadline. If that is true, he just has to hope that Morgana isn't either.

Suddenly a dark mass rises out of the treeline only a short distance in front of him. He ducks, mouth gaping open in awe as the unmistakable shape of the Great Dragon soars over the lake. Impossible and yet unmistakable real no matter how many times he blinks. How can it be? He hadn't been there for the attack on Camelot but Leon had described it to him many times. The Great Dragon should be dead, slain by Arthur himself.  
As absurd as it seems, Percival can't really afford to think about it right now. Even if he could slay a dragon all by himself (he knows he can't) he has much more important tasks to complete. Like warning Arthur. Like killing Morgana. He'll just have to hope that the dragon will just continue to remain as little a problem as it has been.

Rushing now, he almost slides down the steep downwards slope that leads to the lakeside. Mud cakes his breeches and his muscles burn with exhaustion. There's a small voice in the back of his mind saying that he's already much too late, that there's no way he could have caught up on foot while she rides on horseback, no matter how determined he is to not let Gwaine's last words be wasted. Indeed just as this thought begins to take a hold he spies a body on the ground.

Morgana.

So that's it. It's over. He feels no happiness in this victory. Perhaps pity, towards the once-fair enchantress lying at his feet. Some righteousness, surely. And sorrow. For Gwaine, for Elyan, for Lancelot who he'd known a lost first so long ago now. Hot tears spring up in Percival's eyes but he does not allow them to fall. Not yet. Rising from his kneeling positon, he turns back towards the lake. He has but one task left now. To find Arthur. To find what has become of him and his faithful servant – their friend - Merlin.

The lake's waters are still. The world suddenly seems grey here, as if the life has been drawn out of the sky and the earth and into the depths of the water at the centre of the lake. Fervent and breathing harshly, he scans the shore for figures, eyes roving across the waters, to the island and across once more.

Then he sees it.

The boat.

It's simple, of a flawless craftsmanship to be sure but seemingly unmanned. And yet it drifts steadily in a straight line against the flow of the water. Pushing outwards from the island at the centre of the lake.

Somehow he knows what it is. _Who_ it is.

Numbly, he steps closer to the water. A single tears from the pool he has held onto all day flows unbidden down his cheek but he doesn't move to wipe it away. When he closes his eyes he can see him. Lain out on a bed of wood, resplendent cloak of Pendragon red spread out beneath him. Golden hair where once a golden crown sat atop. Blue eyes closed. Almost as if sleeping. But the body is much too still for that. And it always will be.

When he opens his eyes he finds himself ankle deep in the water, a small boat next to him. Unable to resist – or perhaps he simply doesn't care any longer - he climbs in. The small boat moves of its own accord, driven by whatever magic this lake holds. Soon enough the bank rushes to meet it and he moves on cue to disembark.

Mud oozes around his boot with every slow, heavy step. He doesn't think about where he is going. The island is too small for him to get lost and inevitably he will meet up with other side anyway. He just keeps moving forward.

Eventually a familiar figure appears in his line of sight. He stands with his back to Percival, overlooking the water from where the boat can be seen shrinking into the distance. The bright signature neckerchief stands out amongst the grey-green surroundings, the only trace of Pendragon red left to be seen on this stretch of land. He is alone.

 _Merlin._

The sight of those slim, shaking shoulders stops Percival in his tracks. His weighted boots seem suddenly melded to the mud around them. He doesn't need to see his face to know that Merlin is crying. Sobbing silently, in unbridled anguish.

This is the last confirmation he needs. There is no denying it now.

The king is dead.

Torn between comforting his friend and processing his own grief, Percival simple waits. His eyes never once leave the boat as it sails away from them but somehow he loses track of it. It just disappears. Like blinking there was no sound or flash of light. One moment it was there and the next it was not.

The sun has well and truly set when Merlin finally turns to him. There's a vacant look in his eyes and tear tracks mar his smooth cheeks. He doesn't seem surprised to see Percival. In fact Percival is suddenly hit with the inexplicable feeling that Merlin knew he was there all along. No words of greeting pass between them. Merlin simply bows his head to Percival and makes his way past to the tower behind them. Just as he reaches the crumbling doorway he stops. He straightens up, visibly lifting his chin. When he turns there's an intensity to his eyes the likes of which Percival has never seen. Then he speaks.

"Camelot needs to know."

It's a request that Percival knows he cannot deny. "Will you return?" He asks.

"Yes. Not yet but soon."

Percival nods in understanding. "Take care of yourself, Merlin." He steps forward to place a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. The tremors from before are gone. Percival can feel the aura of strength coming from him and he admires it, even if he can't understand it. Merlin has always been somewhat of an enigma to him. But he's someone Percival is glad to call a friend. Right now he has a dire need to hold onto as many of those as he has left.

"Thank you, Percival." As he steps back Merlin smiles at him. It is as genuine as ever, if etched with sorrow and grief. It feels wrong but at the same time right. It's the Merlin he knows, unchanged even as he's grown. Loyal. Kind. Courageous.

They part ways after that, neither looking back. Percival travels back in the convenient little boat across the lake, back up the hill where he found Morgana. He thinks to bury her – no matter what evils she has inflicted it feels wrong to leave her – but when he goes back there is no trace of the body.

The journey back to Camelot is two days of silence and thinking to himself. On the first night his dreams replay the events of the past few days. Sometimes he sees the battlefield. Sometimes he sees the boat and Merlin. But more often than not he sees Gwaine - joyful, proud Gwaine - in pain and defeated by the knowledge that he had unwillingly helped Morgana. He shouldn't have died like this. None of them should. It frustrates and saddens Percival to no end that for all his strength he was unable to save those who mean the most to him.

The second night, he doesn't sleep at all.

On the third day, as the sun rises in the east, he finds Leon waiting to meet him at the steps of the citadel. Like all others Percival has encountered in these past few days, he is alone. Percival isn't sure whether he'd prefer him to be flanked by another knight or if the fact that it can never be Gwaine would be too much right now.

Leon embraces him fiercely, pressing their fore heads together and Percival can hear the relief in his haggard breathing. It seems he's not the only one barely holding it together. There a shuffling of feet nearby and when they part he sees Gaius ready and waiting to look him over. And Guinevere. His heart stops when he sees Guinevere. She stands tall and proud, welcoming smile and fond softness in her eyes. But her jaw is set. She somehow knows what news he has brought.

He steps towards her and kneels. "My lady."

He hears her suck in a breath. Her voice wavers only a little as she asks, "Arthur?"

When he looks up into her eyes to answer, the tears are already streaming down her cheeks. It seems there are now words needed. After she bids him to rise, Gaius takes his arm leading him away to tend to his wounds.

For all the emotional turmoil he is in, there is little physical damage to his body. A few cuts and burns from the ropes that held him, easily remedied by one of Gaius' salves.

"Merlin," he says when they're done. Gaius pauses in his ministrations to look at him imploringly. Percival continues. "He's alive."

A small sad smile graces the wizened features. "Thank you, Percival."

Leon comes to get him not long after. They have a gathering to attend.

Outfitted in a fresh uniform, Percival stands amongst his fellow knights on the front row in front of the two thrones. The Queen sits on her own, head down, studying the small ring in her hand. There's a moment of silence before she finally raises her head. Leon steps forward. As ever he remains stoic in his duty, giving voice to those dreaded words that no man or woman has dared speak since Arthur was crowned.

"The King is dead."

God rest his soul.

"Long live the Queen."

Percival only manages a single chant before his voice gives out but his mouth continues shaping the words long after.

"Long live the Queen."


	2. Guinevere

It's a quiet day. Candles light up the courtyard, flickering with every breath of the citizens who hold them. This isn't the first vigil Gwen has seen held for Arthur.

It will be the last.

She hers sits in the lone throne of the council chambers, in the centre between where two thrones once stood. Only the closest knights are in attendance for her mourning. Leon and Percival flank her sides, coming close enough to offer support but keeping enough distance to allow her privacy.

It's at the end of the council, when all plans for the funeral have been set into place, that a lone figure makes his way through the crowd of vigilant mourners, up the ivory steps and trough the heavy double doors to the council chamber.

Merlin takes several strides into the chamber before it seems his legs give out and he falls to his knees before her, head bowed.

There's a moment of silence. Gwen almost wishes for it to continue; nothing will prepare her for what Merlin has to say.

Dear Merlin. Always a source of joy, a constant in her twisted up journey from serving girl to queen. To see him look so sullen, so defeated...Guinevere's heart almost breaks again, mourning the loss of her truest friends smile on top of the rest.

Finally, Merlin speaks, his hands griping each other so tightly that his knuckles have turned white.

"My Queen, I have come before you with a confession to make. And...it is this..." The formality and lack of emotion in his tone alone is enough to send fear rippling down her spine. Fear for what thoughts he has tortured himself with far enough to warrant such a defeated countenance. He looks up at her now, eyes empty, jaw set. But his lips wobble. His fists, now pressed right against his sides, are still white.

"I am a sorcerer. No, scratch that - I am known to Druid's as Emrys, the most powerful warlock ever to walk the earth."

This is big for him. She'd always known he'd been bottling something up all these years but would never press him on it, knowing that it was much bigger than a simple crush or an embarrassing tale. It was - by their laws - a crime. Merlin had magic. Has magic.

Gwen doesn't gasp. Doesn't shout, give orders or get angry.

The fact of the matter is - while it may be a big deal for Merlin -Gwen isn't even surprised. She's even a little relieved; past events make sense now and that grants her a small amount of closure.

(If she were to look at the knights she would see that most remain stoic and indifferent, only interested in her. It is only Percival's eyes that widen a fraction, only Leon's breath that stutters at the claim)

There's a few seconds of silence. She knows it's Merlin, giving her time to process this revelation. Always the considerate one. Sensing no one is about to interrupt nor strike him, he continues, his head bowed once more.

"It was my first duty - my _destiny_ \- as Emrys to guard the Once and Future King. Arthur." He clarifies. His voice becomes rough when he says the name. He clears his throat, enunciating each next word carefully. "So that a world of fairness could be born under his rule. I -" His voice breaks properly this time and his lips become a thin wobbling line. Violent tremors wrack his body, as if he were kneeling in a drift of snow than on a council chamber floor. Gwen rises slowly and her own eyes wet as she watches tears begin to roll down Merlin's face. In a swift movement she's kneeling in front of him, arms wrapping around him as he sobs.

"- I failed." He finishes through his tears and Gwen holds him all the more tightly. His head burys into her shoulder, her chin resting on his. Both their eyes are screwed shut, holding each other as the cry together, mourning one they loved more dearly than anyone.

"It's not your fault." She whispers. Repeating it like a mantra. She knows it will never be enough. How many times has she been told that her father hadn't died just so she could wear a pretty dress? How long had it been since she'd just accepted that - despite the reassurances - that was the one thing she couldn't quite make herself believe?

No. Arthur's death will hang over them for years to come. But she'll keep trying.

She won't lose Merlin too.

...

Years pass.

The pain fades but never leaves her. There are times when the two sit together, Court Sorcerer and Queen, reminiscing of friends and lovers passed, no more secrets between them.

Sometimes she thinks of Lancelot and on those days she weeps in guilt, although the particular reason as to why she feels guilty is lost on her. Because she loved him when she should have only had love for Arthur? Because he died on her own request? Merlin reassured her on these days, casting soothing charms and staying with her until the wracks of sorrow subside. Just as she had comforted him on the day of his return, when she'd supported him out of the council chambers and sat by the fire as he recounted his life story and the deeds he had done those past few days.

Sometimes she thinks of Morgana. Merlin had told her that Morgana was gone, implying it was by his own hand. She doesn't blame him. They never speak of it again. Gwen supposed she should be triumphant. And she must admit she does sleep better somewhat, knowing that she will never have to face the hatred in her once true friend and mistress' eyes. But a part of her mourns her like the rest of them. She knows she's not alone in this when she sees Merlin ride out to the lake of Avalon to visit her grave.

Sometimes she thinks of Elyan. Her only family, after their father. Dear to her as he had been, her mourning of him had been tainted by Morgana's hold on her. She remembers the day after the spell had been broken (mostly thanks to Merlin again, as is the case with most stories she finds). She'd stood by the lake, picturing the boat as it sailed away. It frustrates her that she can't remember it truly. All memories from her enchantment are confusing and dark, much like the visions from the tower she'd been trapped in. She imagines it was a beautiful boat. With a fierce funeral pyre and a grand ceremony befitting one of the best knights in the realm. Imagining is all she can do but it helps that Merlin is willing to describe it to her when she asks.

The years go on.

The knights of the round table are her strongest supporters as she revokes the ban on magic and offers sanctuary from exile to the druids. Some accept and stay. Some simply smile, serenely, and go back to wherever druids go when they're not in Camelot. Queen Annis proves to be a valuable ally in this as well and soon visits between the two kingdoms become common as a kind of friendship grows.

But no friendship will ever be worth more to her than Merlin's. It turns out he's a surprisingly good advisor, especially on matters of magic. She'd always know he was witty but now she learns that he is wise too.

Often she thinks of Arthur. She's sees him everywhere. In the pillow next to her head at night. In the space next to her throne. On the chair at the head of her dining table. In Merlin. Merlin, who carries his memory like a precious jewel to be constantly checked on and admired. It helps to smile at the memories.

Years blend into each other.

One day she wakes up and she forgets that she usually avoids touching that chair, that pillow.

She is old. Almost as old as Gaius was, may the gods rest his kindly soul. A young girl assists her into her dress. They're all young now, as those were old are now gone. Leon and Percival rest in the lake of Avalon with Lancelot, Elyan and Gwaine.

Soon she will join them, she thinks.

It's not in a grand battle that she falls, as she'd partially hoped. Merlin had seen to that. Any danger she had ever been in, any battles she had ever fought, he had been at her side. Protecting her. Healing her. Just as unwilling to let her go as she was him. At least she will not be remembered as an idle queen.

She falls on her way to the stables. She wanted to say goodbye to the horses, loyal animals that had more than lived up to the standard of their predecessors.  
When she wakes again Merlin is sitting at her bedside, hand in her hand, muttering prayers or spells, she can't tell. It's all the same to her.  
He barely looks a day over forty. Apparently being an all powerful warlock grants you immortality and thus stops your body ageing at the same pace as everyone else. It's as much a curse as a blessing. She feels selfish for being glad that she won't have to watch him go first, condemning him to take that place.

There are lines around his mouth from years of smiling. Lines on his brow from all the times he had frowned in thought. She chuckles, remembering him in his youth. Another lifetime ago.

"You're awake!" He states. She knows he did not expect her to be. Her time has come.

"Merlin." She can barely breath but she forces herself to speak, silencing his protests. "My...oldest friend." He smiles, requiting the sentiment with a squeeze of his hand. "Promise me something."

The tears resurface. It's been many years since they wept together.

"Remember them...Remember us."

He gulps and leans forward to rest his forehead on hers.

 _I promise._ He says without moving his lips.

She hears him.


End file.
